


Hoping You'll Come Around

by mmaree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Banter, Beach House, Catfishing, False Identity, Famous Zayn, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Identity Reveal, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Famous Harry, Online Dating, Pining, Secret Identity, Singer Zayn Malik, Social Media, Strangers to Lovers, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-06 02:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14632221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/pseuds/mmaree
Summary: “I’ve always considered you the clever one, Malik,” Louis clucks, “but from what you’ve just told me, it’s clear you’re not batting on the full wicket.”“Look, I was pissed.  I’ve no idea what I was thinking.”“Well that makes two of us,” Louis huffs back.  He seems far from impressed with Zayn’s apology, seems more likely to strangle him than anything else.  “And don’t you think it’s a bit naff using your best mate’s photo to catfish random blokes on Tinder?”“Only one bloke,” Zayn corrects, “and I wasn’t catfishing.”“Hey, Siri,” Louis says in a bored monotone, “define ‘catfish’ for this bonehead.”“'Catfish. Verb. To lure someone into a relationship by means of a fictional online persona.'”“Fine,” Zayn relents when the automaton shuts up.  “Technically, I guess itiscatfishing, but it’s…different, like.  Not quite as bad.”Louis smirks as he folds his arms across his chest.  “Why?  Because you’re rich, fit, and famous?”~*~Or the one where Zayn’s a famous singer who looks sod-all like Louis Tomlinson, and he’s definitely going to explain all that to Harry.(Soon.)





	Hoping You'll Come Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsallaboutzarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/gifts).



> For [itsallaboutzarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry/works), for your Catfish prompt. There's also a bit of Prompt 2 if you squint (Harry liking Louis, Zayn's best mate, first). You deserve the moon, love, but this was a pinch hit, and I hope it will suffice nonetheless. xx 
> 
> Special thanks to our peerless mod, without whom, none of these fics would exist. (Literally.)
> 
> Title is, of course, from “Meet Me in the Hallway.” Enjoy. :)

 

Zayn is a fuck-up.

Okay, so maybe he’s exaggerating slightly.  Maybe he’s not a total fuck-up.  After all, he’s also ZAYN, a platinum-selling R&B artist, adored by millions, _et cetera et cetera_ , so he must be doing _something_ right. 

But well, he’s got the makings of a fuck-up.  There’s no doubt about that.

He definitely wasn’t winning at life when he was papped on each of his last four dates with girls who practically posed for the cameras once they saw them, all but ignoring Zayn completely.  He definitely wasn’t scoring any character points when he brought two of them back to his place anyway, essentially gift-wrapping morning-after photos for said paps.

He’s tired of launching the careers of models and reality stars, tired of not being able to tell whether someone he’s into is genuinely into him—or, at least more into him than into being _seen_ with him.  Maybe that’s why he set up a drunken profile on a dating app with the mad idea that he was going to find true love.  It was a stupid-ass move; a sad coda to his already sad love life.  And if someone happened to find out it was him (ZAYN, that is), it would be the fucking _end_.  He’d be roasted by the media, an object of public ridicule, and worse. 

 _Much_ worse.

His only saving grace is that he hadn’t been fool enough to attach his actual name or photo to the profile.  (At least he doesn’t think he did.)  Ignoring his splitting headache, he rolls over in his too-big California King and reaches for his phone on the bedside cabinet.  He needs to assess the damage, needs to wipe out all traces of the profile he created.

It takes him all of a minute to open Tinder (and really, how bloody obvious could he be?) and bring up his profile.  The profile which includes his name.  His real name.   Spelt with an ‘i’ instead of a ‘y’ because, apparently, his inebriated self thought that was an impenetrable disguise.  And right now, he can’t even with himself.

But then he reads on, and it somehow gets worse:

 

> **_Zain, 25_ **
> 
> _Artist. Loves music and dogs. Enjoys cooking and quiet nights in. Living the dream and hoping to find my dream girl/guy to share it with._

 

It’s the single most cringe-worthy thing he has ever written (and that’s saying a lot when you take his first EP into consideration).  It’s like he tried to chuck in every cliché anyone’s ever put on a dating profile.  He only needed to bung in “enjoys long walks on the beach,” and he would’ve cleared the fucking category.

Honestly, the sooner he erases this cantankerous carbuncle from the cybersphere, the better off everyone will be.  He’s got his finger on the trigger when he notices he already has fifteen ‘likes’ and what the actual fuck.  The profile’s only been up since last night—technically, early this morning.  

He scrolls through, swiping left on every photo that appears without even bothering to investigate further.  But then he sees someone—a boy with an angel face and a devilish sparkle in vividly-green eyes.  It’s a “Super like,” and yeah, Zayn’s not exactly sure what that means beyond the distracting blue star and border, but he assumes it’s good. 

Zayn checks out the boy’s other photos, then can’t stop smiling as he reads his bio.  This Harry person is quirky and impossibly cute.  He’s incredibly sexy, too. 

It would all be perfect if it weren’t for one problem (beyond the whole ‘he’s famous and what is he even doing resorting to online dating apps?’):  Zayn’s cover photo.  There’s a real possibility that Harry only fancies him because of the photo, and really, it’s not a good likeness of Zayn at all.  In fact, it doesn’t look a thing like him. 

(Mostly because it’s not actually Zayn in the cover photo.  It’s a boy with blue eyes and a hint of a smirk; a boy Zayn’s been best mates with since Reception; a boy Harry thinks is fit enough to “Super like.”

A boy named Louis Tomlinson.)

He’s not sure why he does it, why he swipes right anyway.  It’s one shot in a million that this will work out.  At best, it will lead to a shitload of heartache; at worst, extreme public humiliation ( _and_ heartache).  Then again, there was one shot in a million that he’d get a record deal, and here he is.

 

 

When the match appears, he stares at his screen for a long time.  He imagines how it would look if it showed the proper match, if Louis wasn’t there. 

(Because Louis _shouldn’t_ be there.)

And Zayn’s never been jealous of his best mate before—well, not since Louis got the lead role in that play they did back in Year 10—but he is now.  Just a smidge.

Once more, Zayn visualises his picture alongside Harry’s, and it’s even easier this time.  It’s so easy that the only thing left to do is to send Harry a message.

So that’s precisely what he does.

 

## ~*~

 

Zayn’s in deep.  (Well, not deep in the way he’d _like_ to be, but that’s an entirely different story.)

The thing is, he’s crushing on this boy _bad_.  He spends half his time messaging Harry, and the other half, thinking about messaging Harry. 

They flirt back and forth, but it hasn’t gone any further than that.  (Not yet.)  Zayn finds himself sharing things with Harry that he wouldn’t with anyone else, things like how difficult it is being away from family and friends sometimes.  They’re two Brits living in sunny Southern California—Zayn, for work; Harry, for university.  Harry’s a grad student, passionate as fuck about his course of study, and Zayn thinks that’s brilliant because he’s passionate about everything he does, too. 

Even over a bloody app, Harry comes across as the most genuine person Zayn’s ever (not) met.  He’s so real, and honest, and open, and kind.  It makes Zayn feel like a piece of shit sometimes because although he’s been honest about certain aspects of his life, he hasn’t been totally candid about others—important things like what he does for a living and what he actually looks like; minor things like his postal code and why there aren’t more pictures of him on Tinder or anywhere else.

Zayn takes a slow drag of his evening cigarette as he lounges on his balcony, watching the sunset through the L.A. smog.  His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he shifts the cig to his other hand so he can check it.  He smiles when he sees it’s a message from Harry:

 

> _Let me know when you’re ready to take the next step. :)_

 

Zayn sighs.  Of course he’s ready.  As a matter of fact, he would love to show Harry _just_ how ready he is, but he needs to proceed with caution.  Not only because he’s ZAYN, but because he has started a landslide of white lies that might well crush him if he’s not careful.

He takes one last drag as the sun disappears on the horizon and makes a decision.  He needs to talk to someone, needs to get this whole thing sorted—one way or another.

 

## ~*~

 

“I’ve always considered you the clever one, Malik,” Louis clucks, “but from what you’ve just told me, it’s clear you’re not batting on the full wicket.” 

“Look, I was pissed.  I’ve no idea what I was thinking.”

“Well that makes two of us,” Louis huffs back.  He seems far from impressed with Zayn’s apology, seems more likely to strangle him than anything else.  “And don’t you think it’s a bit naff using your best mate’s photo to catfish random blokes on Tinder?”

“Only one bloke,” Zayn corrects, “and I wasn’t catfishing.”

“Hey, Siri,” Louis says in a bored monotone, “define ‘catfish’ for this bonehead.”  

_“’Catfish.  Verb.  To lure someone into a relationship by means of a fictional online persona.’”_

“Fine,” Zayn relents when the automaton shuts up.  “Technically, I guess it _is_ catfishing, but it’s…different, like.  Not quite as bad.”

Louis smirks as he folds his arms across his chest.  “Why?  Because you’re rich, fit, and famous?” 

Zayn wants to say ‘no,’ but they _are_ sat in the chef’s kitchen of his Beverly Hills’ mansion.  On the other hand, if he agrees with Louis, he sounds like a self-absorbed prick.  

“So, basically yeah,” Louis supplies when Zayn doesn’t respond.  “Look, just tell him who you really are when you’re comfortable, mate.  He’ll understand—if he’s really into you and all.”  Louis gives him a sharp look from across the kitchen table.  “That is, if you don’t wait too bloody long.”  

“But he was attracted to you,” Zayn grumps, suddenly feeling miserable again.  “He was attracted to someone who looks piss-all like me.  What if…what if I’m not his type?”

“Should’ve thought about that in the first place,” Louis sing-songs, “before you nicked my picture, that is.”

“Cheers for the support, bro.”

“Anytime, my lad.  Anytime at all,” the other boy chuckles, and Zayn’s relieved his best mate isn’t truly upset with him.  “Now, show us your profile,” Louis demands, holding out his hand, palm-up.

“No, that’s personal.”

“Personal?” Louis sputters.  “Let me remind you, Zayn ‘Catfish’ Malik, that _you_ were the one who brought me into this.  As I see it, I’m well within my rights to inspect which one of my photos you chose as a front for your nefarious scheme.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “Fine, drama queen.  I’ll show you the profile pic, _but that’s it_.”

“Of course.”

Zayn opens the app, then holds up his phone so Louis can see the photo he used.  A second later, he’s holding a fistful of air while Louis cackles joyously.

Louis’ laughter stops abruptly, however, as soon as he catches a glimpse of Zayn’s screen.  “Oi, why’d you have to use my old head shot?” he whinges.  “Makes me look like one of those tools who gets a professional photo done just for Tinder.”

“Give me my phone back, please.”

“After I’ve checked your profile.”  Louis clears his throat and Zayn tries to recall a time when he was more mortified in the comfort of his own home.  “’Zain, 25,’” he reads aloud before looking up from the screen.  “You know, I feel like I should give you props for not lying about your age.”

“Piss off.”

“’Artist,'" Louis continues, ignoring him.  “Wait a tick… _artist?_ ”

“Recording artist,” Zayn grumps back.

Louis seems to accept this answer and moves on.  He reads the rest without any other interjections while Zayn buries his head in his hands.  Afterwards, Louis’ laughter is so loud it drowns out Zayn’s frustrated attempts at a response. 

“ _Bro_ ,” Louis manages at last, and Zayn’s starting to regret ever deciding to confide in him. 

“Stop taking the piss, Tommo.”

“I’m not!  It’s just…generic, man.  Can’t help but have a laugh, now can I?”  

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

Louis snorts.  “Yeah, with me as your cover photo.”

And that gives Zayn pause because Louis has a point.  The bio he wrote is dreadfully basic.  Anyone who swiped right (including Harry) must have been motivated by the photo alone.  It’s slightly gutting.

“Let’s see Harry’s profile then,” Louis states, and before Zayn can stop him, he has it queued up and ready to go.  He starts reading it aloud—not that he has to.  Zayn’s practically got it memorised verbatim.

 

> **_Harry, 24_ **
> 
> _25 miles away  Active 2 hour ago_
> 
> _Hi, I’m Harry. First of all, thank you for reading my “About” section. I know not everyone does so I appreciate it very much._
> 
> _I’m a full-time student and part-time yoga Instructor. I used to be a baker. I’m currently searching for that special someone who will bring a porpoise to my life._
> 
> _Please feel free to check out my other photos and ignore the one of me with my sister. She told me to include it because I look…well, I won’t use the word she used, but I promised her I’d include the photo, and I always try to keep my word._
> 
> _I’m an Aquarius if it matters to you. I’m also English. Thank you again for reading this, and I hope you’re having a very lovely day._
> 
> _All the love. –H x_

 

Louis lifts his gaze from the screen.  “What the hell did I just read?”  He blinks a few times, then hands Zayn’s phone back to him.  “And that wasn’t written by a bloke our age.  Not a chance, mate."

“Of course it was.  Why would Harry lie about his age?”

“I don’t know,” Louis re-joins a bit too smarmily for Zayn’s liking, “why would you lie about your job and appearance?”

“That’s different,” Zayn grumbles because it _is._   “Besides, I know he’s who he says he is.”

Louis scoffs at that, and Zayn doesn’t appreciate it.  Not at all.  “Just like he’s probably certain you’re who _you_ say you are?” 

Zayn bolts up from the table and throws his hands in the air.  “I bloody _knew_ you’d react this way which is why I didn’t want you to read it in the first place.”  He leans back against the counter and shakes his head.  “Harry’s polite and has good grammar, and you automatically assume the worst.”

“He wrote ‘porpoise,’ mate.  Even I know that’s the wrong word.”

“It was a joke, Louis.  He’s a marine mammologist…or studying to be one at any rate.”

“So you’re saying that was on porpoise?”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “It’s not funny when you say it.”

“It innit funny when _anyone_ says it, and this punter actually typed it into his Tinder bio where I was forced to read it with my own two eyes.”

“What can I say?” Zayn cracks, trying to keep a straight face.  “Harry’s a punny guy.”

Louis just stares at him for a long time.  “Well, there’s no question in my mind now:  you two fucking deserve each other.”

 

## ~*~

 

Harry gives Zayn his number, and Zayn’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with that.

Well, of course, he understands that Harry wants Zayn to ring him so they can talk.  The only problem is that Zayn’s not sure he can disguise his voice well enough to ensure Harry doesn’t recognise it, even as pop culturally clueless as the boy claims to be.  Besides, it leaves room for other avenues of conversations like FaceTiming and selfies and links to his Instagram—all of which would be extremely problematic in a variety of ways.  It’s also one giant step closer to meeting up in person, and that’s something Zayn can’t ever do…not until he susses out how to explain to Harry that he’s not the man in the profile photo, the guy Harry fell for and even “Super liked.”

At the moment, Zayn’s not sure how he can get through this without being super hated.

Zayn rings Harry that night in spite of his concerns.  In spite of everything.  They talk long into the night, and Zayn never wants it to end.  He only masks his voice a little, just enough to make sure he doesn’t sound like ZAYN.

Not that it seems to matter much.  Harry’s already told him that he seldom listens to anything new, that he prefers vinyl over digital music, that he couldn’t go a week without listening to _Rumours_ or _Rubber Soul_.  Zayn gets it; he couldn’t go a week without listening to _Exodus_ or _Thriller_.

And maybe it’s too soon to say aloud, but Zayn doesn’t think he could go a week without listening to the sound of Harry’s voice either.

 

## ~*~

 

One voice he _could_ do without hearing is his own, but that’s because they’re on take one zillion, and he is so done with this song.  The sad part is that they’ll probably end up binning the tune in the end—if he has enough material for the album, that is.  

Zayn usually nails the main vocal on the first few takes, but today, he’s distracted, and it’s taking several more.  He keeps mucking up the lyrics even though they’re right in front of him, or coming in early at the bridge, or spacing out when he’s supposed to be singing.

He spent most of the previous night on the phone with Harry.  He shouldn’t be so tired because it’s not like it was _that_ late when they finally said goodnight, but then again, maybe he should.  Besides, this day was already kicking his ass.  It started with an early call and a radio show at dawn, a consultation with his stylist, a photoshoot after that, meetings with his record company over the (non)progress of the new album, a phone call from home, another meeting with someone Zayn can’t even remember at this point except for the fact that it had something to do with a book or film (or both), and now the recording studio.

He’s dead knackered.

It’s hard juggling everything—even harder because he feels like he’s constantly making excuses to Harry about one thing or another:  why it took Zayn so long to return a call or why Zayn never shows him pictures of his art.  The list goes on and on.

So now, as he finishes up a take, he anxiously awaits the verdict from the other side of the glass.  He just wants to wrap this up so he can go home and sleep for the next week.  “Well?” he speaks into the microphone.  “Was it alright?”

The men look at each other, and now Zayn’s nervous.  He’d thought that last one was sick, really thought they’d be able to call it a day. 

“Want the good news or the bad news?” his producer asks.

Zayn bites his lip.  “Good, I guess.”

“That last one was dope, man.  You really nailed it.”

Zayn’s relieved, because his voice is fucked, and he could really use a cuppa about now (and that week-long nap).  “So what’s the bad news then?”

“That’s the last track we have to work on, and even if we kept everything we have—everything you’ve approved,” his producer continues, “that’s only going to get us to six songs.  We’re not even close to having an album’s worth of material, bro.”

Zayn groans in frustration, wanting to bang his head against the walls of the booth.  He’s been so booked with appearances, photoshoots, fashion campaigns, interviews, meetings, marketing strategies, and the like, that he’s barely had time to give a thought to his music (a.k.a., the whole reason he’s doing this in the first bloody place).

Truth be told, he’d give his fourth toe on his right foot for a little inspiration right now.

 

## ~*~

 

Zayn needs to get out of town.

It’s not that he hates living in the city exactly, but…he basically hates living in the city.  It’s okay for a few months, but then he gets tired of it.  It’s stifling his creativity—or that’s his excuse anyway.

He tells his manager this, and she suggests he take a holiday, go somewhere to drum up a little inspiration.  She offers to clear his schedule for the next few weeks, and Zayn’s not protesting.

The next day when Harry rings him, the boy mentions his own upcoming holiday.  Harry explains that the term will be ending soon, his penultimate semester, and that the yoga studio is on a mini-break as well for minor renovations.

“Any plans?” Zayn asks as Rhino curls up with him on the couch.

“Well, I’d love to go somewhere I could relax,” Harry admits, “but I’m trying to save up for a newer car, and I don’t want to blow everything on a holiday.  Also…no, never mind.”

“No, tell me what you were going to say,” Zayn gently urges.

Harry sighs.  “Well, I was sort of hoping we could finally meet at some point, but I think I already know what your answer’s gonna be.  You’ll probably have to wash your hair or something.”  There’s a slightly sour note to the end of Harry’s statement that makes Zayn a panic a little.  Maybe that’s why he does it.

“I’ve a beach house,” Zayn blurts out before he can stop himself.  “Was thinking about going up there myself to get some lyr—art done,” he catches himself just in time.  “Would you like to come up for a week or two maybe?”

“You have a beach house?” Harry asks incredulously, missing the point completely.  “I thought you said your art hadn’t really taken off yet, that you were just doing some corporate stuff for now.  Also, didn’t you say you didn’t have a lot of money growing up?”

“Well, yeah…but things change, you know,” he returns vaguely.  “My family’s doing really well now,” he adds, and that’s true at least.  Still, the conversation is veering off into treacherous territory, and he can’t let that happen.  “So what do you say?”

“About staying at yours for a week?”

“Well, you could stay as long as you want,” Zayn offers, “and there’s obviously no pressure.  There’s a guest room so…um, yeah,” he finishes awkwardly.  “I just thought it’d be a good chance for us to get to know each other, like.”

Harry’s silent on the other end of the line, and now Zayn’s certain he’s just mucked everything up.  It was a crazy move on his part, a last ditch effort to save whatever he’s got going with Harry.  There’s no way the other boy will agree though.  He’s probably thinking Zayn’s some creep at best (or serial murderer at worst), stalking boys online and inviting them up to a beach house in the middle of nowhere. 

“Yes.”

Between his inner monologue and Rhino’s snores, Zayn’s convinced he must have heard wrong.  “I’m sorry, did you just say—”

“Yes,” Harry chuckles warmly, “and cheers for the invite.”

“My pleasure.”  Zayn smiles stupidly, grin stretched so wide his face fucking hurts.  He’s just glad no one but his sleeping dog is around to witness it because fuck, that’s not like him at all.  It’s not like Zayn, and it certain-as-fuck isn’t like ZAYN. 

“Well, there’s my holiday sorted,” Harry declares.  “Gosh, I can’t wait to see you, Zayn.”

And just like that, Zayn’s stupid smile vanishes in an instant.  He suddenly crashes back to reality, remembers that he hasn’t told Harry who he is yet.  He takes a deep breath.  He’s got to do it now.  “By the way, there’s something I should tell you about myself…before we, uh, move forward, that is.  I’m—”

“Can’t it save until we meet?” Harry interrupts, and Zayn can barely hear him over the way his heart is pounding in his chest.  “I don’t want to jinx this.”

Zayn swallows down his nerves and mentally takes a step back.  Maybe Harry’s right.  Maybe it’s better if Zayn tells him face-to-face; when Harry can’t hang up on Zayn, change his number, and disappear completely from Zayn’s life.

After all, Harry might not understand over the phone.  It’s a lot to take in, that Zayn’s not the guy in the profile photo, the guy Harry swiped right for….

Yeah, it’s definitely better if Zayn waits. 

“Gosh, I can’t wait to see if you’re as good-looking in person as you are in your cover photo,” Harry says, a little flirty.

Zayn can’t help but wince at the other boy’s words.  “You might be surprised,” he replies weakly, and he leaves it at that.

 

## ~*~

 

“Let me guess,” Louis deadpans, voice crackling and cutting out as Zayn winds along the secluded drive that leads to his beach house, “you didn’t tell him you’re tragically rich and famous yet, did you?”

“No,” Zayn confesses.  “I keep waiting for the perfect time, but I’m so afraid he’s just going to leg it when he finds out I haven’t been exactly up front about everything.”

“Yeah, could do,” Louis hums, and Zayn wants to tell him he’s not helping.  At all.  “So,” Louis prattles on, “I didn’t want to bring this up, but there’s always a chance he might see the commercial I did for that prescription migraine reliever a few months back.  By the way, my agent said it was pure quality, my best work to date.”

Zayn wracks his brain.  “Sorry, can’t recall that one.”

“The one that starts off with me staring into the mirror, conveying utter agony to the camera and—”

“Oh, the one that was shot in the loo?” Zayn asks, a bit miffed.  “I honestly thought you were supposed to be constipated, mate.  Thought it was an advert for a laxative or summat.”

“Piss off, Malik.  You wouldn’t know proper acting if it hit you between the eyes.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Zayn teases, and he’s met with a barrage of indignant exhalations.  “But I’m actually ringing you because I’m, well…I’m going to meet him.  In, um, two days.”

“YOU’RE GOING TO MEET HIM IN TWO BLOODY DAYS, AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN TOLD HIM YOU’RE NOT THE GUY IN THE PHOTO YET?!” Louis thunders, and Zayn feels like he’s just been hit by a tidal wave.  He wishes the reception was still shitty because it’s a bit overwhelming coming over the Bluetooth of his car’s speakers.  Even Rhino wakes up and starts barking from the backseat.  He’s just glad he’s already parked.

“Listen, I was about to tell him the other day, that I looked different from the cover photo,” Zayn defends himself, “but he told me to wait until we meet.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

Zayn worries his teeth into his bottom lip.  “So any advice?” he asks hopefully. 

“Yeah, tell him.  _Everything._   As soon as bloody possible.”

Zayn was hoping for a pill a little easier to swallow, but he guesses Louis is just being honest, just being the solid friend he’s always been.  “Yeah,” he muses sadly, “suppose you’re right.”

“Always right, Malik; you know that.  Oh, and one more thing—”

“Yes?”

“If it doesn’t work out—like, for any reason, I mean—be a good lad and give us his number, yeah?”

“Get stuffed,” Zayn snorts, shaking his head.

“Well, it was worth a try,” he replies cheekily before Zayn ends the call, smiling in spite of himself.

Rhino scurries past him the moment the door’s unlocked, but Zayn stops a moment to take it all in.  He exhales as he eyeballs the place.  Everything’s exactly as it was, exactly as it should be, and fuck, he already feels like a new person just by walking in the door.  He can’t pinpoint what it is—the resort-type design, the quietness that’s such a contrast from his usual loud life, the smell of the ocean drifting in—but it’s calming, comforting.  It’s nourishment for his famished soul. 

He hasn’t gotten down here in a while, been too busy with work and travel.  Earlier in the year, he spent some time back home in Bradford and filmed a video in London.  There was the tour before that, and the fashion weeks in New York, Paris, and Milan.  For the past few months, he’s been practically leashed to L.A., labouring away on the new album—or trying to at least.

But he’s here now, and that’s all that counts.

Still, he can’t completely rest yet.  He’s got a lot to do before Harry arrives after all, needs to erase all traces of ZAYN (not that there’s much here, to be honest, but he needs to double-check, needs to make sure).  Harry’s already going to be right narked when he discovers Zayn’s been withholding the fact that he’s an international popstar from him.  There’s no point in having constant reminders of it all around the house. 

It’s a lot to get used to, dating someone famous.  Harry’ll need time, an adjustment period.  The beach house will give them that time, away from the intrusiveness of shitty paps and well-meaning fans.

But first, Harry will need to get over the shock that Zayn isn’t a blue-eyed, chestnut-haired, roguish-looking chap.  ( _If_ he gets over the shock that Zayn isn’t a blue-eyed, chestnut-haired, roguish-looking chap, that is.)

 

## ~*~

 

“Hiya, Harry.”

Zayn cringes the second the words leave his mouth.  He’s had _weeks_ to think of a decent greeting, one that might be memorable, one that might knock Harry off his feet, one that might make the man dismiss the fact that Zayn looks nothing like his profile picture….

But when Zayn opens his front door, all he can come up with is, _hiya, Harry_ , and what the actual fuck.

Harry dumps his luggage on the front stoop and scrunches up his face.  And maybe it’s a little premature, but Zayn’s sure he’s in love.  It’s taken all of about a minute for it to happen, but he feels it just the same.  It’s exactly the way his mum told him it would go down, too.  She had said, if he were lucky, that he’d feel it, like a lightning bolt hitting home—only his ‘home’ is a log cabin drenched in kerosene, and it’s about to go up in flames in about three seconds.  One…two…

“You must be a mate of Zayn’s, then?” Harry questions, and Zayn’s too busy formulating a response to fully appreciate how utterly adorable Harry is right now.  And attractive.  Insanely attractive.  _Unfairly_ attractive because Zayn’s having a hard time focusing.  He just wants to lean in and snog the tall, green-eyed angel before him.

Harry clears his throat, and Zayn takes that as his cue:

“I’m…Zayn, actually.  Nice to, uh, meet you.”

Harry stares at him blankly, and Zayn waits for it to happen:  the moment’s hesitation, the pregnant pause, the click of recognition.  It doesn’t though–or maybe Zayn’s just missed it. 

Harry’s face is unreadable as he asks, “Zayn, as in the Zayn I’m supposed to meet?”

Zayn gulps; he wishes he had some idea of what Harry is thinking right now.  “Yep, that’s me!” he says a little too enthusiastically.  He forces himself to relax as he juts out a hand in greeting.  Harry just stares at it, and Zayn clumsily uses the hand to brush back his hair.  “Um yeah, so…I can explain—”

“You jolly well better explain,” Harry declares, backing away.  “Because you sound like the Zayn I’ve spoken with, but you’re not the same dude in the profile pic, and there’s no way you can sell me otherwise.”  He glances back at his car in Zayn’s driveway, an aqua Prius that’s got to be at least ten years old, as if he’s contemplating getting back inside of it. 

“Yeah, see what you mean about needing a new car, mate,” he says, stalling for time.

“That _is_ my new car,” Harry snaps.  “Just bought it before the trip.”

“Oh.  S’nice.”

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek.  The last time he felt this awkward was at his first industry party.  Things didn’t go well then, and the outlook for his current situation isn’t much brighter.  “It’s…it’s my best mate,” he divulges at last.  “The guy in my cover photo, I mean,” Zayn explains when Harry gives him a strange look.  “So, um, I couldn’t, like, use my own picture for obvious reasons and—”

“Why?” Harry inquires innocently, and oh.  Harry isn’t mad because Zayn was hiding the fact that he’s famous.  No, Harry’s only upset about the fact that he’s been catfished.

It suspends belief—Harry not recognising him, that is.  A half hour ago, Zayn was feeling like the most overexposed person on the planet, unable even to get a fucking coffee without causing a minor public disturbance.  It’s almost like he can’t get away from himself sometimes—picture plastered everywhere from billboards to magazine covers.  Some days he swears he’d give his fourth toe on his left foot for a little anonymity, for people not prejudging him even more than they would already.

“So that’s what you wanted to tell me on the phone,” Harry muses, not waiting for Zayn to confirm his statement.  “And why couldn’t you use your own photo ‘for obvious reasons.’”

“Why?” Zayn echoes disbelievingly.  It does his head in that Harry _still_ hasn’t recognised him, that the man doesn’t have the least clue who he is and…it’s sort of brilliant now that he thinks of it.  It’s an opportunity to be a normal human being for once, to be with someone who sees him as a regular bloke and not some larger-than-life celebrity. 

To find out if it’s actually possible for someone to like him for him. 

Still, Zayn should tell him.  It’s important, the fact that he’s FAMOUS famous, the fact that he’s ZAYN.  Harry should understand what he’s getting himself into if he chooses to start (continue?) a relationship with him.  Zayn simply _has_ to tell him. 

“I…I don’t know why,” Zayn falters, losing his nerve at the last second.  It’s not all his fault though.  Harry’s looking directly into his eyes now, and it’s a bit like staring at the sun.  “I used a picture of my best mate because I was afraid of putting myself out there, I think; afraid of being rejected and what-not.” 

It’s not a complete lie.  Zayn _was_ afraid of putting his real picture out there, on the web, attached to a dating profile.

But you’re gorgeous,” Harry states matter-of-factly, eyes roaming over Zayn’s face.  It’s the first time in a long time Zayn can actually remember feeling giddy when someone complimented his looks.  Suddenly, nothing else seems to matter.  (Especially not some niggling feeling that he should tell Harry the whole truth now.  He’s got time…they’ll be spending the next couple of weeks together. 

That is, as long as Harry hasn’t changed his mind.)

Zayn ducks his head down and gathers his courage.  “So, um…if you don’t want to stay now, I totally get it.  Just know I’m, like, cool with whatever you decide—and of course, you’d have your own bedroom and all that.  Like, if you were gonna stay.”  Zayn convinces himself to peek up at Harry, and once again, he can’t decide what the other boy is thinking.

“So no expectations, right?” Harry asks a little suspiciously but Zayn can hardly blame him.

“None whatsoever.”

“Good,” Harry approves, almost business-like.  “Oh, and I promise I won’t bother you too much; I know you said you’ve got work to do.  Plus, I was hoping I might be able to catch up on my reading.”

Zayn’s not going to lie—he feels a little crushed.  Harry seemed so eager to meet him before, kept pressing him for weeks, and now it’s like they’re two distant acquaintances making the best of shared living quarters while on holiday.  It’s a little gutting because Zayn’s already falling hard.  Then again, Zayn hasn’t had any curveballs thrown at him; Harry is the spitting image of his Tinder cover photo.

Zayn can’t exactly say the same for himself.

Harry hoists his duffel bag back up on his shoulder.  “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to be regretting this later?” he mumbles under his breath before facing Zayn with an even expression.  “Where should I put my things?”

“This way.”  Zayn picks up Harry’s other small suitcase and leads the way down the hall, thankful Harry can’t see the crestfallen look on his face.

 

## ~*~

 

It’s weird, having someone else around.  It’s comforting and scary at the same time.  He’s been accustomed to being an island for so long, to being his own man and making all his own decisions, that he’s almost forgotten how to be around other people—especially on an intimate level like this.

Not that they’re intimate in _that_ way.  They haven’t so much as kissed yet, and that’s probably a good thing…for now.

They soon settle into a routine.  Zayn cooks; Harry cleans.  Sometimes, they switch.  Zayn walks Rhino, and Harry tags along.  Zayn sunbathes; Harry swims.  They play Frisbee on the beach, and Harry does most of the running because Rhino can’t be bothered.  They watch old films and play board games into the night.  Zayn sketches—more like doodles around new song ideas—while Harry catches up on his reading list.

They have a deep discussion over a bottle of wine on the second night and again on the fourth.  They make plans to visit the public beach (despite Zayn’s reservations), maybe drive along the coast on another day.

It’s all very nice, but Zayn can’t help but want a little more.  (He can’t help but wish Harry wanted more, too.)

 

## ~*~

 

They get to the beach, the public one, and maybe this wasn’t such a tremendously awful idea.  After all, Zayn’s got his sunnies on, collar turned up, and he’s almost unrecognisable with most of his tattoos covered and his newly-bleached hair.  Besides, there’s barely anyone here at this time of year. 

He’s almost enjoying himself as they collect the items they’ve brought along from the boot of his car when—

“Hey, you know them?”

“No,” Zayn answers swiftly as the familiar feeling of dread starts to pool in his stomach.  “You know, I was thinking we should take a pass on the beach today, since it’s so crowded and all.  What do you say we just grab some take away and head back to mine?”

“But we just got here,” Harry whinges, clearly oblivious.  “And I’d hardly say it’s crowded.”  He peers over Zayn’s shoulder again.  “You positive you don’t know those girls?  They keep waving at us, and I don’t know anyone around here.”

Zayn keeps his head down.  “No.”

“You didn’t even look!” Harry protests, exasperation creeping into his normally placid tone.

Zayn decides to placate him and dares a quick peek.  It’s exactly as he suspected.  He spots two girls, maybe nineteen or twenty, chatting excitedly and pointing at them. 

He turns back around.  “Nope, they’re complete strangers.”

“ZAYN!  ZAAAAAAAAAYN!!!”  

Harry side-eyes him.  “Wow.  How impressive is it that two birds you’ve never met apparently know your name?” he observes drily.  “They must be psychic.”

“ _Oh_ , you mean _those_ girls,” Zayn chuckles nervously, sliding a hand through his hair.  “Uh, yeah.  I uh….”

“Yes?” 

“Shit, I just remembered something,” Zayn sputters, sprinting back towards the car park. 

“Zayn, stop!” Harry shouts after him, and Zayn slows to let Harry catch up (and avoid twisting his ankle on the uneven terrain).  “What the bloody hell was all that about?” he demands when he catches his breath, grabbing on to Zayn’s hand.

And Zayn knows Harry’s probably only doing it to prevent him from running away again, but it’s practically the first time Harry’s touched him, and he can’t help but savour the moment.  After Harry releases his hand a second later, Zayn swears he can still feel it tingle.  Just a little.

Or maybe it’s just his imagination.

“Well?”

“Sorry, I…um…,” Zayn stumbles, debating what to tell a very confused-looking Harry in front of him.  “The truth is, well, I do know one of those girls.  She’s an…ex-girlfriend.”  He quickly scans their immediate surroundings but there’s no sign of the fans.  “I, uh, thought it would be awkward.  That’s why I didn’t say anything at first.  Sorry, I should’ve told you when you asked me.”  He stops talking before he gets himself into even deeper trouble and waits for Harry to see through his paper-thin lie.

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Harry concurs, only a hint of annoyance in his tone, and Zayn can hardly believe he’s managed to dodge what should have been a next-level catastrophe.  “But don’t do it again, yeah?”

Zayn nods vigorously.  “Um, you mind if we drive farther up?  I don’t really want to stick around here under the circumstances, and I heard there’s a sick spot just minutes away.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees easily.  “Let’s go.”

 

## ~*~

 

Zayn’s miserable.  He’s hot and sweaty because he’s afraid of shedding too many items of clothing.  Luckily, it’s not August or he would have died of heat exhaustion by now.

Plus, he knows he’s tempting fate just by being out here, and it’s making him jumpy.  He can’t even enjoy the view—the view being Harry lathered in suntan lotion and wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of coral-coloured shorts.  He expects paps to spring out from behind every rock, expects fans to ambush him at every turn.  Luckily, he was able to persuade Harry to set up camp on the edge of the beach, and their closest neighbours appear to be in their seventies. 

Practically anyone could blow his cover though, despite the precautions he’s taken.  Every minute that ticks by feels like a small victory.

He just hopes those girls from earlier didn’t make a positive identification because that’s the last thing he needs.  They seemed to be far enough away, but he can’t be sure.  He would look like a right douche if he was caught running away from fans at a public beach. 

“Looks like there are some shops around here,” Harry observes, skimming over the brochure he picked up at the visitor’s centre while Zayn pretended he’d forgotten something in the car.  “Fancy checking them out?”

Zayn’s heart leaps into his throat because no, he doesn’t want to check out the fucking shops.  His sisters had stopped off there the last time they visited and told him all about it.  According to Wali, they weren’t even shops really, just stalls with a bunch of worthless junk.  And that ain’t even close to worth the risk in his book.  “Nah, there’s not much there.  It’s mostly like a craft fair; not really my bag.”

“But you’re an artist,” Harry sulks, and well, shit.  Zayn doesn’t want to disappoint Harry or make the other boy think he’s some snobby artist type because he’s not.  (Technically, he’s not really that kind of an artist, but it’s the principle of the thing.) 

Harry frowns.  “I mean, I’m not going to force you to go if you really don’t want to,” he mumbles, “Just thought it would be something fun to do, and I really like that sort of thing….”

Zayn makes the mistake of looking up at Harry then, of seeing the cute pout, and he caves like a cheap lawn chair.  “Let’s go have a look, then.”

“Don’t feel like you have to go just because—”

“I’d _love_ to go, Harry.  Maybe my problem is that I’ve never been with someone who appreciates them is all.”  Zayn smiles at Harry and Harry smiles back and Zayn’s sure everything’s going to work out just fine.

As long as he isn’t recognised.

 

## ~*~

 

“Can I get you something?” Harry asks sarcastically.  “A fake moustache, perhaps?”

“Huh?”

“Well, it’s pretty bloody obvious you’re still trying to hide from your ex,” Harry replies a little snappishly.

“Hiding from my ex?” Zayn questions before it hits him.  “Oh!  I mean, yeah.  You’re spot on; that’s exactly what I’m doing.”  Zayn thought he’d been more discreet about the whole trying to stay incognito thing, but apparently, he hadn’t fooled Harry (not completely anyway).  “So,” he begins casually, “how’d you figure it out?”

Harry snorts.  “Hmm…the hat you fished out of your backseat, the sunglasses that seem to be permanently attached to your face, the way you insisted on setting up camp on the farthest side of the beach…,” he shares, ticking the list off on his fingers.  “You can relax though.  I haven’t seen either of them since earlier this afternoon.”

“Sorry,” Zayn says sheepishly.  “I know I’ve been acting strange—because of my ex-girlfriend—but I just want to say I really enjoy being here with you, Harry.  This is a lot more fun than I ever thought it would be.” 

Harry positively beams down at him, and once again, Zayn feels that warm, fuzzy feeling within him.

They stroll onwards as the sun starts to go down and a cool breeze picks up.  Harry keeps pointing things out, admiring them, marvelling at them.  He finds beauty in even the most mundane of items, like a paperweight or seashell.  He’s child-like in his excitement at times, almost ingenuous as he explores the various displays, dragging Zayn along by the hand.  It’s a wonderful quality, and Zayn sort of thinks he’s falling hard…too hard.

“Ooh—look at this!” Harry exclaims, gingerly lifting a keepsake box made entirely of sea glass.  It shimmers in the sunlight, a visual symphony of colours:  amber, red, turquoise, cobalt, seafoam, and amethyst.  Harry’s emerald eyes are dotted with a kaleidoscope of hues as he gazes lovingly at the object in his hands, and Zayn can’t help the pull he feels in his heart at that moment.  He really can’t.

“Isn’t it the most exquisite thing you ever saw?” Harry wonders aloud.  There’s a reverence to his words, a quiet awe.

Zayn feels it, too, and again, he can’t help it.  “Yes,” he replies, momentarily mesmerised as Harry’s eyes meet his, “breathtakingly beautiful.”

 

## ~*~

 

They’re driving home, somehow empty-handed, when it happens.

The radio’s on low, and maybe that’s why Zayn didn’t think to turn it off, didn’t realise the danger of recklessly letting it play.  Because now, he hears the opening beats of his last single, and he’s never been this loathe to hear one of his own songs in his life.  

Just before it gets to the chorus, he’s able to casually manoeuvre his hand towards the dial, turning the volume down, when—

“Leave it on, please?”

Zayn feels his stomach plummet as he hears his own falsetto soaring incredibly loud in the background.  “Oh,” he says, raising the natural volume of his speaking voice a few notches to cover the song, “I thought you said you didn’t like, uh, current stuff?”

“I do like some of it, just don’t always listen to it, you know?” Harry answers, jacking the volume up.  “I really like this,” he adds, and Zayn’s torn between being proper chuffed and wanting to open the door and throw himself out of a moving vehicle. 

Too bad he’s driving.

“What do you like about it?”

“I don’t know…it feels familiar somehow,” Harry replies, furrowing his brow when Zayn looks over at him, “and the dude can definitely sing.”

For the remainder of the drive, Zayn just stares straight ahead.  He bites the inside of his cheek the whole way to prevent himself from smiling like an idiot.

 

## ~*~

 

“So how’s it going?” Louis asks, and Zayn sticks his head out into the hall to make sure Harry isn’t anywhere in the vicinity.  When he hears the shower running, he ducks back into his bedroom and shuts the door.

“It’s been brilliant, man.  I really, really like him.”

“That’s ace!” Louis says delightedly, and Zayn can’t help the stupid smile that comes to his face.  (If he’s not careful, it’s going to be a permanent fixture.)  “So how did he react when he found out you were ZAYN?”

“Um, yeah, about that….”  Zayn sinks onto the mattress and stares out his window and across the ocean.  It’s a beautiful day; it’s always a beautiful day in Southern California though.  “I haven’t exactly told him yet.”

“Shit,” Louis breathes, “is he blind?  Sorry, I didn’t realise—”

“No, he’s not blind, Louis.”

“Visually impaired?”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  “No, nothing like that.”

“Then, I’m not following you, mate,” Louis replies a tad cautiously.  “Unless you’ve been wearing a paper bag over your head for the past several days, he’s had to have bloody noticed that you’re ZAYN.”

“Not if he doesn’t even know who ZAYN is.”

Louis doesn’t respond for a while.  Down the hall, Zayn thinks he hears the shower turn off.  “ _Shit_ , bro,” Louis exhales at last, voice chock-full of disbelief.  “When you gonna tell him?”

“Soon.”

Louis scoffs.  “’Soon’ as in normal person soon or ‘soon’ like ‘my album’s dropping soon?’”

Zayn laughs despite himself.  “Shut it, you.”  He hears a door open, and he knows he’s going to have to wrap this conversation up in the next thirty seconds or so.  “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

“Yeah, just one more thing,” Louis says, more serious than Zayn’s heard him in years.  “Don’t fuck this up, yeah?  You sound the happiest you’ve been in a while, and it’d be a shame if it all went pear-shaped because you didn’t have the bollocks to tell Harry the truth.”

Zayn feels incredibly sad all of a sudden because he knows that it probably won’t make much of a difference either way.  Harry’s not in love with him; he’s probably not even physically attracted to him.  He doesn’t tell Louis that before they hang up though.  (He doesn’t even tell himself that most of the time.  And whenever he does, he quickly tries to forget it because he’s enjoying spending time with Harry, and that’s all that counts.)

 

## ~*~

 

“I’m knackered,” Harry announces, yawning into Zayn’s shoulder.  “Think I’ll head off to bed.”

“Goodnight,” Zayn returns, a little disappointed as Harry’s warmth disappears from his side.

They’d been watching a movie that Zayn couldn’t tell you the plot of if his life depended on it; however, he _could_ tell you how Harry’s just-washed hair smells like strawberries, how his skin smells of fresh soap.  He could describe the way the boy beside him chuckles lowly, how it reverberates like a bass drum throughout his upper body.  Zayn could speak volumes about the way Harry’s eyes tear up at the sad parts (and some not-so-sad parts), how he doesn’t even try to wipe them away or cover it with a cough like Zayn would. 

But most of all, Zayn could tell you how wonderful it feels to have Harry beside him, almost-cuddling, almost intimate, almost _his_.

But not quite.

Harry goes to bed then, and Zayn goes to work.  Lyrics spill out of him.  He writes about love—the unrequited kind.  The kind that warms you up but leaves you empty.  The kind that keeps you hoping in spite of everything. 

The kind that’s better than nothing at all.

 

## ~*~

 

Zayn should tell him. 

It’s already been a week, and Harry can only stay two.  Zayn’s going to have to reveal everything eventually; he knows that.  Even so, it’s nice lingering in the bliss of a counterfeit life as long as he possibly can.    

And so he waits.

And waits.

(And waits.)

 

## ~*~

 

They’re ten days in when something _shifts._

It’s palpable, the change.  It’s electric.  It’s a little terrifying, too, like scaling a high-voltage fence and not knowing fully what’s on the other side.  It’s also everything he’s been hoping for since the day he first set eyes on Harry and knew he was **the one**.

Love at first sight.  (Love at first _swipe_ , perhaps.)

It doesn’t matter that it took Zayn ten seconds to realise it once they met, and Harry, ten days.  It just matters that they’re both (finally) at the same place, a fixed point on the same plane in the space-time continuum.  Because when Harry looks at him now—now, as they sit out on the terrace, moonlight dancing upon restless waves just beyond, there’s something different in those viridescent eyes. 

Something unforgettable.

Harry moves in first, slowly, soft and rapacious all at once.  Fingers tangle in Zayn’s hair as Harry pulls him in for a lingering kiss.  His lips taste like strawberries and sheer ecstasy, exactly how Zayn’s imagined them to be.

“You sure?” Zayn whispers when they come up for air.  He searches deep into Harry’s eyes because he has to know that they’re on the same page, that this isn’t just a fling, a convenient fuck.

“Yeah,” Harry answers, thumb outlining Zayn’s bottom lip in a way that causes a current of electricity to course through him.  “Yeah, I’m sure.  Been wanting to shag you from the first day I saw you, to be honest.” 

“Really?” Zayn squeaks out, almost embarrassingly so, as Harry places a trail of wet kisses along his neck.

“ _Really._ ” 

Zayn pushes him away, but he can’t push away the night, or the cloudless climes, or the salty smell of the ocean air.  “You promise you’re not just saying that because I’m the only warm body around?”  He looks down at his hands, tries to steady them.  He should be better at this; he’s _ZAYN,_ for crying out loud.  “You sure you weren’t disappointed, like?”

Harry measures him with curious eyes.  “Why in the world would I be disappointed?”

“Because…because I’m not Louis.”

“Zayn,” Harry reprimands, forcing Zayn to look at him, “I fell for the guy who wished me ‘sweet dreams’ every night without fail for the past four-and-a-half months.  I fell for the guy who was creative and sensitive, the guy who _listened._ And when you opened the door that day…yeah, I was shocked,” Harry confides, “but like I said at the time, you’re bloody gorgeous.” 

Zayn wants to believe him, but something’s holding him back still.  He hesitates, then goes for it.  “Would you have ‘Super liked’ me—I mean, if it was my picture you saw on Tinder?”

“Hmm,” Harry ponders, “good question.”  He tilts his head, taps his index finger on his chin a few times, and Zayn figures this is what torture must feel like.  “No,” Harry finally decides.  “No, I would not have ‘Super liked’ a photo of you on Tinder.”

“No?” Zayn scratches out, wishing Harry wouldn’t have been so brutally honest.  Then again, he shouldn’t have asked the question unless he was ready to hear the answer.   

“Yeah,” Harry grins a bit impishly, that devilish gleam lurking behind cherubic features.  “Yeah, would’ve figured you were in another league, mate.”

Zayn feels himself blush.  “Bollocks.”

Harry smirks, closes the distance between them in an instant.  “Now where were we?” he murmurs against Zayn’s cheek and suddenly nothing seems to matter.  Harry’s hot lips drag across Zayn’s cheekbone, making him shudder deliciously as a gust of wind blows in off the water. 

They kiss again, and it’s even sweeter the second time (so much sweeter). 

“Want to, like...?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Harry breathes, eyes ablaze with the same desire Zayn feels pulsing through his own body. 

When they fall into Zayn’s just-right California King, Zayn feels a completeness he’s never known, never thought possible.  For all of his fame and riches, for all the countless accolades he’s accumulated in his brief tenure at the top, he’s always known there was something missing.  Something that casual hook-ups and meaningless shags couldn’t satisfy.  Something more profound. 

A _connection_. 

Zayn locks eyes with Harry as he enters him.  Later, when Harry rides him, they lock hands.  It’s not sex—at least not like any sex he’s had in the past.  It’s sensual, unrushed, tender.  It’s mind-blowing.  For the first time, Zayn understands what it means to _make_ love.

For the first time, Zayn understands what it means to _be_ in love.

 

## ~*~

 

He should’ve known.  Zayn’s a grown-ass adult, and he should have figured fairy-tales couldn’t last forever. 

But still, he was hoping for a _little_ longer.  A day or two…the rest of the week, maybe.  He had high hopes that he could have cemented what they had if only he had more time.

He shouldn’t have agreed to go out again.  Plain and simple.  He _wouldn’t_ have except Harry had suggested the idea after he’d just finishing blowing him, and Zayn probably would have run naked down Rodeo Drive at that moment if Harry asked.  Besides, it was nothing major—just breakfast at the local greasy spoon.  A post-coital meal.  Completely harmless (in theory).

But then, _it_ happens as soon as they sit down.

“Holy shit!  Aren’t you—”

“No,” Zayn cuts her off.  “I’m not, unfortunately,” he adds with a tense laugh.  He peeks over at Harry who’s just lowered his menu to give Zayn a quizzical look.  “But I get that all the time.”

The young woman squints her eyes as she examines Zayn like he’s a specimen in biology lab.  “I bet,” she responds at last.  “I just got the new Billboard in the mail, and I swear you could be his twin.”

“Yeah, like I said,” Zayn replies, “I get asked that _all_ the time.”  He quickly orders the first thing he sees on the menu after that, figures it’s probably best to move this exchange along.  The dodge he used generally only works for so long before they start getting doubts.

The waitress keeps glancing back at Zayn even as she helps Harry narrow down what he wants to order.  When she eventually leaves, it’s all Zayn can do not to breathe a massive sigh of relief.

“What was all that about?”

Zayn looks at the man across from him, the first person he’s ever imagined spending the rest of his life with, and briefly considers spilling everything.  The only problem is that they’re in public.  (Well, that and the fact that Zayn still doesn’t really want to tell him, doesn’t want to ruin the first real thing he’s had in forever.)  “Oh, I get mistaken for this one singer all the time,” he lies, playing with the salt shaker, twirling it around like a top.

Harry accepts it at once which makes Zayn feel worse somehow.  “Must be a right pain,” Harry says sympathetically.  Zayn shrugs and tries to think of a way to change the subject.  He spins the salt shaker again, and this time, it tips over, spilling salt out onto the table. 

“That’s bad luck, you know,” Harry relates, and Zayn wants to reply that the real bad luck is that he’s being served by a waitress who clearly recognised him the moment she saw him.  “My mum always said that if you spill salt, you should always—”

Harry’s interrupted when the waitress returns with their drink order.  “English Breakfast tea,” she announces, placing a porcelain mug in front of Zayn with a loud clang, “and black coffee for you, sir.” 

“Cheers,” Harry says with that kind smile of his, “it was lovely of you to bring these out so quickly.” 

The waitress turns to mush because even though Zayn may be an internationally-acclaimed recording artist, he’s got nothing on Harry’s simple charm.   The two—Harry and the waitress—start chatting about the weather, and Sally’s two children, and God only knows what else.  Zayn chimes in a few times, just so it’s not (extremely) awkward, but he secretly wishes she’d piss off. 

She knows too much.

“So how long are you two visiting California?” she asks, and Zayn wants to bung the pepper shaker at her.  He really does.

“We both live here—can’t you tell by the accents?” Harry quips, and she giggles before telling them she needs to check on their food.  Zayn thinks that’s a bloody good idea.

She returns a minute later with their plates.  Before she leaves, she stops a moment to scrutinise Zayn again.  “You’re right; he’s a lot bigger than you, more muscular,” she mutters almost to herself.  She wipes her hands on her bright yellow apron and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Zayn gaping after her.

Harry bursts into laughter, and Zayn wants to bean him.  “The look on your face when Sally said that!” he guffaws, and Zayn’s not the least surprised that Harry caught the girl’s name.  “You looked so bloody offended just because you’re not as built as some pop singer.”

“I’m not offended,” Zayn huffs even though he is.  Just a smidge.

Harry’s still chuckling as he takes out his phone, and maybe if Zayn wasn’t having a bit of a strop he would’ve sussed out Harry’s intentions sooner. 

But then, Harry’s eyes widen as he stares at his screen, and Zayn knows it’s already too late.

“It _is_ you,” Harry gasps, gaze switching back and forth between his phone and the man in front of him.  “You have the same name and everything.”

Zayn bites his lip.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“ZAYN!” Harry hisses a little too loudly, you’re ZAYN!”  Harry shoves his phone in Zayn’s face, and there’s his new magazine cover filling the screen.  Suddenly, Zayn recalls the waitress mentioning he was on the new Billboard, and he wants to kick himself.

“Look, I can explain,” Zayn begins even though he really can’t.  He’s already starting to unravel a bit around the edges.

“You lied to me!” Harry shouts and now they’re definitely being too loud.  He can already hear chatter from the kitchen and the few tables behind them.  “You lied to me about _everything_!”

“Let’s not do this here.  Everyone’s looking at us.”

Harry doesn’t seem to hear him.  “You lied about your identity over and over.  You lied about what you looked like, about what you do.”

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” Zayn pleads with him.  “Harry, I really—”

“You didn’t think I was worth telling the truth to,” Harry falters.  “Not even after we….”  Harry’s voice trails off, and Zayn doesn’t know what to say at this point because it’s all true.  Every word of it.  He just sits there watching Harry’s pained expression as his dreams and hopes for the future explode right in front of him.

“The song that played on the radio,” Harry struggles out, voice shattering Zayn’s heart into a million pieces, “the one I thought sounded familiar.  It was one of yours, wasn’t it?”

Zayn swallows the lump in his throat.  “Yes.”

And just at that moment, just when he’s sure things couldn’t get any worse, someone snaps a photo.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath as he turns away.  When he looks up again, Harry’s already on his feet.  “Harry, I’m so sorry.  I never meant for—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry snaps, fingers pressed to his temples, eyes screwed shut.  “Please drive me back to your place so I can pack my things and leave.”

And that’s exactly what they do.

(And that’s exactly how it ends.)

 

## ~*~

 

It’s official:  Zayn is a fuck-up.  Even Rhino seems to agree with him this time, staring up at Zayn with reproach (whenever he’s not sleeping).

And yeah, maybe Zayn’s not a total fuck-up.  After all, he’s also ZAYN, a platinum-selling R&B artist, adored by millions, _et cetera et cetera_.

But he has suddenly realised that none of that counts, not really.  Not when all he really wants is the love of one man.  He’d trade in all of his fame and fortune in a heartbeat for another chance at happiness, another chance with Harry. 

But yeah, he fucked that up.  Irrevocably.

 

## ~*~

 

Zayn gazes upon the sea glass box on his mantle.  He bought it the day after Harry left, braved that stretch of beach again just to purchase these fragments of discarded glass, thrown away and washed-up on shore.

He feels a little thrown away and washed-up himself sometimes. 

Zayn brought it back with him to L.A. because it’s a good reminder that something beautiful can come out of something broken.  He even tucks away his sorrows in there sometimes.  Tiny scraps of paper stored in a delicate, fragile container.  Tiny scraps of his soul on display, yet hidden away in plain sight.

He’s even turned some of them into songs—over a dozen in the past month alone.  He just needs to sort out some time to get into the studio and lay down his vocals and some backing tracks.  His producer’s happy.  The record company’s happy.  ZAYN’s happy, too. 

He goes back on Tinder—not because he’s looking for another relationship or even a quick fuck; he deleted his profile long ago.  No, the only reason he logs on to any social media at all lately is to stalk Harry.  (He’s already guilty of catfishing so he figures adding casual stalking to his list of online crimes isn’t going to tip the karmic scale too drastically.) 

He checks his own social media, too, even though he hasn’t exactly been active for a while now.  He’s relieved to find no mentions of Harry at all.  Any pictures of him from their last meal together—the meal they didn’t even get a chance to eat—are blurry at best.  People just read it as breakfast with a friend, maybe a personal assistant, and Harry’s kept his anonymity.

At least Zayn didn’t fuck _that_ up.

He keeps staring at the box, reflecting on everything over a glass of his best whiskey.  Slowly, he rises and walks to the mantle.  He lifts the glass lid gingerly and selects a slip of torn-off notebook paper at random.  He uncurls it and reads:

 

> _i miss what could’ve been but never was_

 

He replaces it in the box and shuts the lid.  He blames the whiskey for what he does next, for composing a new tweet, his first in weeks.  He adds a filter to the photo he took of the keepsake box the day he bought it and posts it to his Instagram with a few hashtags.

Louis rings him no more than a minute later, and it doesn’t really come as a surprise.  It’s so like his best mate to be checking up on him, asking if he’s okay.  He is.  (He will be.) 

He doesn’t expect the text he gets an hour later from a number he’s told himself to delete a thousand times.

 

> _I miss you, too._

 

Zayn’s breath catches as cautious affection brews in his breast.  It’s too much to ask, that Harry might forgive him, that he might want to try again.  He takes a few moments to collect his thoughts, then replies:

 

> _Zayn, 25. Recording artist. Loves music and dogs. Enjoys cooking and quiet nights in with green-eyed grad students studying marine mammology. Also enjoys craft fairs and long walks on the beach. xx_

 

It seems like an eternity before Harry answers.   

 

> _I believe you owe me breakfast. Yours or mine? :) x_

 

After they get the details sorted, Harry texts him goodnight, and Zayn goes to work.  Lyrics spill out of him.  He writes about love—the reciprocated kind.  The kind that warms you up and sends you head-over-heels.  The kind that makes you realise someone could actually love you for who you really are.

The crazy, stupid kind that leaves you wanting more (in the best possible way).

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. :)


End file.
